


you grip (your hands around my throat)

by fishingclocks



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Cop AU, Fluff and Humor, Light Angst, M/M, Mittens - Freeform, Roy occasionally fails at Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-13
Updated: 2016-05-13
Packaged: 2018-06-08 02:38:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6835597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fishingclocks/pseuds/fishingclocks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When he finally picks up, Maes sounds far too cheery. “Heya, Roy! Congratulations on last night!”</p>
<p>Oh god.</p>
<p>What has he heard?</p>
<p>“I did not have sex with him, Maes.”</p>
<p>On the other line, Hughes is perfectly silent for at least one minute… then, slowly, says “I feel like we are talking about two very different things.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	you grip (your hands around my throat)

**Author's Note:**

> thank you to [paradox](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ParadoxinMotion/pseuds/ParadoxinMotion) for looking this over and being generally Good as i struggled to write a single word of this thing. <3
> 
> also; there is a description of pseudo panic attacks - if you need me to tag anything, or tell you where it is, please let me know!!

It’s a bright November day, and on the walk from his car into work, Roy glares at the sky. He is personally of the belief that, if the sun is out and the sky is clear, the weather should match them. Temperatures this morning are in the upper twenties. Roy’s nose is running and reddened. He feels betrayed.

When he’s walked into the station and past the morning bustle—it feels the same as the afternoon, but at about .5x the speed, and 2x the zombie-like groaning—Maes is there and grinning, a cup of coffee in hand, and the part of Roy that envies how put-together his best friend’s life is grows that much larger.

“Morning, Roy!” he says, voice lilting in a sing-song register that, if it were anyone else, would be patronizing—from Maes, it’s just goddamn annoying. “ _Lovely_ weather we’re having, isn’t it?”

Maes knows full well it’s ungodly out there.

“I’m wearing two scarves, Hughes,” says Roy, levelly. “ _Two_.”

Maes gives him an appraising look, humming in consideration. “And mittens, too. You certainly went all-in today, huh?”

The _only_ downside to mittens is that Roy cannot flip him off. “I’ll stop when winter stops.”

Laughing at decibels inhumane for 2 PM, much less _8 AM_ , Maes claps Roy’s shoulders.

Normally, this is where their morning conversations end. Roy gets in to work, Maes will irritate him, then scurry off just before he has Roy _too_ annoyed, and they’ll be back on their way. Except this time, Maes lingers, chuckling that obnoxiously fake laugh he puts on when he’s stalling for time, and Roy is _immediately_ suspicious.

“Maes, what have you done,” Roy asks, with a sigh.

The grip on Roy’s shoulder tightens in a way that is absolutely supposed to be ‘brotherly’ and ‘encouraging.’ “Ridiculous, Roy! Do you want some coffee?” Maes, when he wants to be, is stone-faced and terrifying—it’s the only way that Roy can gauge when his friend is feeling under the metaphorical weather—but right now Maes just looks like he’s searching for something in the unnatural gaping archives of his memory, so Roy knows it isn’t _too_ serious—that does nothing to ease Roy’s suspicion, however.

Roy tries to shove Maes off his shoulder, with mild success—now their arms are linked—still, it might be better than a pseudo-hug in the middle of the entryway. “Did Gracia finally end up kicking you out?” he says, grinning at Maes affronted grunt, even if he gets an elbow to the ribs. “Because I _told_ you so, and you are not welcome to take my couch—ask Vato.”

“You’re _hilarious_ ,” Maes says, not even sounding offended anymore, and Roy nearly frowns. He turns to Sheska, who is just making her way through the door and wearing _three_ scarves. For a moment, the competitive flash in Roy gets inexplicably irritated. “He’s hilarious, isn’t he?” Maes says to Sheska—she just smiles uncomfortably and scurries off. “I was just telling him _how hilarious_ he is. Hey Roy, about that promotion you’ve got coming up—“

“I knew it—don’t worry Maes, I’ve been prepared for this day since we joined up.” Roy finally manages to slither out of Maes’ iron grip—jostling Maes’ coffee in the process; it spills a little on one of Roy’s scarves and Maes’ shirt, which drives a sharp yelp of _Frick!_ from his friend, and Roy honestly feels _no_ guilt. “I know a guy down in Autopsy—just tell him where the body is and I’ll cover the rest.”

“My favorite shirt,” sulks Maes. Roy is almost glad, really; that shade of purple is just _unsettling_.

“Good morning, Maes,” says Roy, and finally manages to pick his way over to his workstation.

“Roy! Wait!” Maes calls behind him, but Roy’s _really_ got to start working—looming promotion means excessive monitoring, and he really should have been in about a half hour ago.

Roy, when he gets down to it, _loves_ his job. He’d gone from cadet to corporal to sergeant in nearly three years, and three later he’s on the cusp of making deputy chief. Six years—six years of doing the job he _loves_ , doing the thing that he wants to do. In short, Roy’s nearly content with his occupation, and the way it’s headed.

Nearly.

Because there is _one_ little hiccup.

Now, being employed by the Central City Police Department (Eastern Division) has its advantages—namely, small numbers, meaning fast promotion time; part of the secret behind Roy’s speedy rise up the food chain. But those same advantages roll right back around to being _dis_ advantages, because even at the main, largest department in Central East, there is very, _very_ limited personal office space; certainly none for probably-almost-guaranteed-next-Deputy-Chief-Detectives. Which meant that the only thing separating Roy from _Jean Havoc_ was the space necessary for walking and a strange, purple piece of modern art.

These things in mind, Roy covets whatever privacy around his desk that he can get.

He may have encouraged, but will deny to his dying day, the Commissioner’s ‘morale-boosting’ art program, for slightly selfish reasons.

Riza firmly believes that he allows piles of paperwork to accumulate on his desk so they can act as a wall. _This_ is, in fact, false; paperwork is just damn boring.

He’s especially looking forward to the privacy because just yesterday, he’d been assigned a new, perplexing case—a fresh new serial killer, who some unoriginal dumbass down in profile has nicknamed ‘The Chopper.’

At his desk, he’s _expecting_ to see mountains of files and evidence on the new case—he’d almost been expecting _more_ , if he’s being realistic.

What he _isn’t_ expecting is a small blonde splayed out in his desk chair, flipping through their phone and humming a trashy pop song under their breath.

“Ex…cuse me?” says Roy, not quite knowing how else to approach… this.

The blond currently inhabiting Roy’s desk chair swivels it around sharply, looks at him—gives him a once-over that might have had Roy preening internally if his mind was not otherwise occupied with _what??_ and _what odd eyes_.

“Hey,” says the blond, smirking as if a conclusion about Roy has been reached in about six seconds of examination, and apparently, it’s _hilarious_. “You Roy Mustang?”

Roy has sudden flashbacks to Maes’ suspicious behavior, and calling his name down the hall as he left, and determines that this is, in fact, Hughes’ Fault™.

-

“Maes, is this _your_ doing?” Roy hisses into the phone, when he’s home again, and Maes is definitely finished eating dinner with his family, so he’ll have _no_ excuse to not answer.

On the other line, Maes laughs, and he sounds _completely_ unrepentant. “I don’t know to what you’re referring, Roy-Boy—I do a _lot_ of things.”

“I just got assigned to the _Chopper_ case, Maes, I don’t need some small-town rookie riding my tail.”

“Exactly! You’re gonna appreciate the help later, Roy, I guarantee it—he might be young, but trust me Roy, the Elric kid’s a _wonder_. I did a lot of research when the Commissioner said she wanted him, and—you’ll appreciate having him, Roy—I promise.” Maes sounds sincere, beseeching, and Roy—

sighs.

“I am still unbelievably pissed at you,” he cedes.

“I’d be surprised if you weren’t.”

-

Roy Mustang knows that on the Scales of Smart there is a spectrum in exactly 49 shades of gray, and that compared to some he may not even fall anywhere _on_ that spectrum, but slightly to the left, crying, on the linoleum floor.

He is also very okay with this.

But Roy is _also_ very big on control, and he knows that to get respect from anyone, one must first sound wise and vaguely like a Dickens character, and in doing so achieve the status of Assumed Smartest Person in the Room.

Words are Roy’s _domain_.

But if words are his domain, then Edward Elric is an invading force, terrorizing and salting the earth as he goes, leaving Roy drawing a blank and slightly awed.

Their first encounter, Ed is sitting at Roy’s desk, and he does not quite know what to say—this in itself sets a precedent for many of their further interactions. Ed tells him ‘hey’ again, stands up and introduces himself as ‘Ed Elric; I’m your replacement.’

Apparently, he’d been approached by the Commissioner’s people about taking Roy’s job as deputy inspector at the department—he’d been recommended by ‘an old family friend; Jean Havoc, you heard of ‘im?’ and Roy had taken several minutes to digest _that_ fact alone—about four months ago, back when he was working in a small town called Xenotime in the Southeast.

Which? All well and good— _let_ him have the job; if the Commissioner had approached him that long ago, he probably deserved it more than _Roy_ did—except… Roy hadn’t actually been promoted yet. He was still _working_ this job—presumably would be even into the new year.

Yes, Ed had confirmed. Technically, until in a few months when Roy finally got around to getting that promotion—like the fact it was taking so long was no one’s fault but his—Ed was unemployed.

_So_ , in the _meantime_ , he is to follow Roy; Ed hasn’t ever been stationed in a city like Central East, which is actually rather large and sprawling, all things considered, so he’s to tail Roy and learn how things tick in a department like this—basically, shadow his every move.

There is nothing about this scenario that Roy likes. Similarly, there is nothing he can do to change it.

-

A month passes.

Winter settles in to stay, snowfall making Roy’s job just that much harder, and Central East is covered in a four-inch blanket of sludge and rock salt.

Ed has been settling in—oddly well. He has a way with people that Roy can’t comprehend—he treats socializing like a chore, and a brash, crude manner that should be nothing but polarizing; and yet—

“This bastard tell you we were gonna interview the Horowitz parents today?” Ed said, jabbing a finger in Roy’s direction, and Roy resisted the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose. He must have let _some_ of his exasperation show, though, because Havoc and Fuery look _delighted_.

“Nah Chief,” says Havoc—his grin is positively idiotic; Roy makes note to mention this to him later, possibly with the suggestion that this is why he has been having such trouble getting a date this year, even though with the mood he’s in Roy’s sure he’ll just laugh. “But that’s alright—you need us to bring’em in, or you makin’ a house call?”

Ed’s nose wrinkles at the suggestion. “What do you think, Kain?”

Fuery looks a touch surprised at being included in the conversation—dammit, how is someone like _this_ so _considerate_? “Um, well—from what we _know_ of the family, after the initial period of denial they seemed very open to any suggestion we had for them—I think they just want The Chopper found…”

Roy intervenes. “At this juncture, I highly suggest we go there—when he was getting their statements, Falman noted that the Horowitz’ were in a fragile state; best not to cause any undue stress.”

Ed sends him a look—like he’s gauging him, like he’ss trying to _read_ him, and Roy just trains his expression into a blank, slightly unimpressed mask.

“Won’t that seem a little unprofessional? I read they weren’t too impressed with the way you people handle things over here,” he says, levelly—or, as levelly as Ed Elric seems able.

“At this point I think we’ve won them over,” says Roy, raising an eyebrow. “The handling behind this investigation so far has been exemplary, and the media’s been treating it respectfully.”

“Do you really think they’ll care what the _media_ has to say? These people are _journalists_ —they know all that’s bullshit.”

“Better to keep feelings from possible injury than to assume they won’t be.”

“Christ, just _kiss_ already,” mutters Havoc to Fuery, and when Ed rounds on him, red and raging, Roy thinks that they might have found a common ground.

Two days later, they get coffee.

It is not _like_ that, as Roy tells Maes exactly eight times before he is drowned out by the laughter.

Because it isn’t.

Like that.

They are working on a case—a straight-forward smash-and-grab, but it’s a Parliament member whose house has been smashed and valuables grabbed, so they must make a show of Caring and going through a list of suspects (even though they caught the man last night).

Sometimes Roy loathes the politics of his job, if only for the added gas miles and overtime.

But however much _Roy_ dislikes it does not hold a candle to Ed Elric’s righteous wrath.

When they have safely made it into Roy’s car again, Ed is a burning ball of hatred and excessive cursing. _Who_ he is cursing, Roy isn’t quite sure. But the profanity is there.

“Ed,” Roy says, carefully, because he has had this car for less than five months and he would rather it not be wrapped around a signpost because his fiery companion decided to rip his esophagus out. “Ed, you seem rather stressed.”

Ed turns to him, disbelievingly, and says, hoarsely, “ _Stressed?_ ” like this is a made-up word.

“Yes,” Roy responds, without comment. “Why don’t we stop somewhere on the way back in. How do you feel about coffee?”

And so they stopped by a small, local shop named Cobalt Fluorine & Iron (which makes Ed laugh and wince at the same time—a feat Roy finds _astonishing_ ) and Ed seems to have a _very_ good relationship with coffee.

It is—nice. Roy doesn’t really understand how it _can_ be, given Ed’s earlier mood, but it is.

They talk about things that are not work-related and things that are. When Roy asks as to Ed’s ridiculously strong selection—and lack of any addition, at that—he explains the horrors of dairy and all its relatives.

Outside, it snows, and the mildly-bustling Central East is almost pretty under the fresh powder.

And it’s nice.

This is nice.

Ed is—

Four days come and go in an odd sort of dream.

Day five, and it shatters.

The Chopper has claimed another victim.

-

Forensics finds a bottle of detergent at the scene this time. The Chopper is getting careless—Fuery has four theories within the hour.

Ed’s face is drawn as he looks over the photos from forensics—he looks tired, but there is a fire buried deep in his golden eyes that is _determined_.

Roy sits down next to him, opens a folder, and dives in.

Dreams imply waking, he tells himself, and pointedly does not look to his right.

-

Roy plops some cheap Xingese on his desk and runs a mittened hand through his hair just to make sure it hasn’t frozen stiff. Deeming it salvageable, Roy shrugs off his coat—outside, the sky is pelting rain and hail at the ground, and it’s too soggy to do any good to anyone, at this point—he drapes it over the back of his chair, and settles into it.

Next to him, Ed is collapsed on the desk, breathing deep and steadily. He _had_ said he wasn’t feeling very well.

Roy determines to send him home—wouldn’t want to catch whatever Elric germs he’s trying to spread around.

The thin skin under Ed’s eyes is sunken and bruised—the fan of his eyelashes clash with the color and draw it out, stark against Ed’s tanned skin.

He might as well wait until Ed wakes up to send his ass home. But it’d be criminal to let his share of the Xingese just go to waste…

-

Despite the fact that he is a pain in Roy’s ass, he can see why the Commissioner offered Ed a transfer—it’s clear he was wasted down in Xenotime. The man is a _genius_ —a fact that Roy is positive will infuriate him ‘til his dying day.

He blows up at the mere _mention_ of the word ‘short’, and he will _bicker_ over the pettiest things (no matter that Roy actively participates—Ed _initiates_ ), and in all, the subtleties of language at large seem to be lost on him.

“Hey Mustang, hand me those phone records, will you?” Ed says, hunched over Roy’s desk, fingers—both synthetic and flesh—dancing over the information there like they’ll soak it up better with direct contact.

Roy complies, muttering a _you’re very welcome_ under his breath. Ed just grunts. Though, Roy doesn’t see what new Ed will find there—between the two of them, they’ve scoured all available evidence at least twice in the past three days. Roy hasn’t grown _despondent_ , he’s just… frustrated. They’ve got leads, and they’ve got potential suspects; now, all they need is to just start finding _proof_ to support them.

All in all—great in theory, grueling in execution.

There is, in fact, no discernable pattern between the four victims—Kain had not ruled out the possibility, but had said if there _were_ a pattern, it would be based on personal, subjective bias, and then had quietly bemoaned two years spent studying criminal profiling and eaten a pack of Reese’s Pieces—which in turn, had ruled out many of their former theories.

Ed’s brow is furrowed intensely. In his frustration-induced bout of boredom, Roy can’t help but comment. “You know, if you make faces like that long enough, your face will stay that way.”

His companion snorts derisively, not even looking Roy’s way. “Thanks _Mom_ , I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Not that it would make much difference,” Roy muses, “given that your primary facial expressions seem to be ‘scowl’ and ‘smirk’— it wouldn’t make much of a dent on your repertoire.”

“ _Fuck_ you,” says Ed, finally looking up. “I have a _rich_ facial vocabulary.”

“Quite right.”

“ _Vibrant_.”

“Of course.”

Ed groans and runs a hand over his eyes. “Christ you sound like my brother.”

Roy presses his sudden advantage—now _he’s_ the one smirking. “I assume your brother is a charitable, intelligent individual,” he says, and Ed flounders, because however much he wants to argue, he cannot bring himself to so blatantly bad-mouth his brother.

Ed, of course, is _livid_. “You cheating bastard,” he growls, and _there’s_ that sour scowl again.

“Wow,” says Havoc, from behind Roy’s chair. “Bad time? You two need a moment alone?”

And just like that, the distraction is rendered moot—Ed’s attention is fully on Havoc, his eyes hard and businesslike, and Roy has to hold back a disappointed sort of sigh.

“Nope,” Ed says for them both, “the opposite of that, you asshole. You need something?”

“ _Actually_ ,” says Havoc, “I have something for you two.”

Roy swivels his chair around, fingers steepled. Again, Ed snorts. “Do tell,” says Roy.

Several heavy files are dropped on their— _Roy’s_ —desk, and Havoc shrugs. “Some new stuff from the last crime scene—apparently there was a backlog in the chem labs, they couldn’t get these out until now; Commish said you’d want ‘em?”

Ed pounces on them almost immediately; Roy looks over his shoulder. “I’ve been _wondering_ where all the lab work was—thanks Jean.”

Havoc throws them a salute as he walks away. Ed’s already two pages in, and he looks _disgusted._

“Well, what do you think, Major Elric?” Roy jokes lightly as he reads over Ed’s shoulders, because what he is seeing is… _not_ what he had been wanting to see. “Have you cracked the case?”

“This makes no _fucking_ sense,” says Ed, glaring at the report like it has personally offended him. “This is too _clean_ —you were there Roy! You saw that detergent—we watched them _swab the stuff_. But this is—this is saying—“

“…that there was nothing left.”

There is a sinking feeling in Roy’s stomach, and he shifts in his seat, mind racing to accommodate for this new development. He’ll have to let Maes know about this as soon as possible, and Riza, and Fuery, and—

And Ed looks confused, and worried. “I don’t understand. Did we… make a mistake?” It’s so Ed—ready to question his own observations over that of the lab work, hoping beyond hope that he won’t have to consider the possibility that he has _absolutely_ thought of by now.

“Ed, they have someone on the inside.”

-

Roy isn’t quite sure why he was worried Ed would let this get to him.

It _does_ —of course it does. But the only effect the knowledge that there is a possible traitor in their midst has on him is to make him even _more_ determined to solve the case—Ed’s determination and focus were increased _exponentially_ ; this time, with a thin undercurrent of rage fueling his every move, and Roy honestly doesn’t know why he expected anything different.

Roy is surfing through the DNA profiles for evidence of tampering when Ed practically shrieks in his ear “ _Mustang holy shit_.”

Not only does Roy flail and upend is chair, but this garners Ed more than a few dirty looks from _everyone_ in the room—Ed doesn’t look reprimanded, but it’s the thought that counts.

In a harsh whisper, Ed says to Roy “Mustang, holy _shit_.”

“I had heard,” sighed Roy, but he is genuinely interested in what Ed has to say—a malady Ed seems to inflict on most people he met. “What have you found, Ed?”

Ed says “Okay, so,” and Roy knows he’s in for a metaphorical ride. “ _so_ there was a lot of crap about this case that wasn’t making sense before you—posed your theory—and it’s not that I didn’t believe you before but _now I believe you_. And I think I might know who it is!”

There is something in Ed’s eyes, when he’s explaining something brilliant—it’s _bright_ and intense but nervous, like he’s worried how Roy will react, or that he isn’t explaining it well enough, and it is—distracting. Fascinating.

Which Roy will _pointedly_ compartmentalize and ignore until he is fit to deal with this alone.

The point is that Ed is, unfortunately, still a genius, and Roy—has just missed most of what he’s being saying.

_shit_

“…and that’s all shitty, you know? But nothing like, _really_ indicative of something like ‘an inside job.’ _Until_ I looked at those stupid fucking phone records.”

“And?” asks Roy, because he is now _very_ worried that Ed will somehow gather that he hadn’t been listening and quiz him on it or something equally terrifying.

“ _And_ ,” says Ed, not guessing a thing, “look for yourself.”

Ed pulls the open file in front of Roy, and points to the section that is circled _vigorously_ in green pen. On the opposite side of the folder is placed another, nearly identical record, also circled in green pen—the first under the name Harriet Horowitz, the second for ‘CCPD East.’

“She called us before she was attacked?” says Roy, gears beginning to click into place. “We never received record of this before.”

Ed nods furiously. “You didn’t—because there _isn’t_ anymore—they were all completely erased. But the dispatcher _definitely_ received her call— _so_ , two things: either the dispatcher for that night, a girl named ‘Holly Penn’ who doesn’t have a single dark spot on her record, is in with Chopper, they have somehow managed to have access to almost _all_ of our investigative files on this case, or The Chopper works for us.”

Roy’s eyes narrow as he surveys Ed’s work, and says “Who was the officer dispatched that night?”

-

“This is, without a doubt, the _worst_ idea I have ever had,” says Roy, and resists the urge to bash his head against the steering wheel.

In the seat next to him, Ed grins. “Don’t sell yourself short, Mustang—this is the only _good_ idea you’ve ever had!”

“I embrace the sweet caress of death.”

“We’re on a _stake-out_ —there is nothing that could possibly be ‘embrace-of-death’ worthy about a _stake-out_.”

“Correction, Edward,” says Roy, through gritted teeth, “on many accounts. The first being that we are _on our way_ to a stake-out—if this light lasts much longer we’ll probably miss our man entirely.”

Ed coughs, and it sounds very close to the phrase _drama llama_ , but Roy deems not to rise to the taunt, and instead continues. “Also, I would like to point out that we are doing this to possibly catch a man—“

“Barry Metzger,” Ed interjects, helpfully.

“A _Barry_ , currently in the employ of our city’s _police department_ , who we believe to be the serial murderer deemed ‘The Chopper,’ who has actually been gaining _national interest_. Forgive me if I’m not on the edge of my seat here, Ed.”

A bag of Cheetos crinkles and strains as Ed carelessly pulls it open one-handed.

Roy nearly screams.

“Hey Mustang, I know you’re stressed—“

“I am _not_ —“

“And worried this’ll go south, but hey—we’ve got at _least_ four people running back-up for us, probably more. Even better—the guy’s obviously got something against guns, so we don’t gotta worry about being shot at!”

Ed’s— _unique_ perspective should… not have been as comforting as it was. Nevertheless, Roy felt his hands loosen _just slightly_ on the steering wheel—even if the sound of that Cheetos bag was still bound to drive him fucking insane by the end of the night.

“What strange priorities you have, Ed—personal safety, no guns, and food.”

Ed shrugs. “What can I say? I’m a man of simple needs.”

In the end, Roy ends up running that red—wouldn’t want to miss that Barry.

-

Despite the continued efforts of the universe today, Roy is feeling _good_. So, so many things went wrong today, from the minor inconvenience of malfunctioning stoplights, to _my partner and I are getting knives thrown at our actual heads, holy shit_ —but a very bad man is now off the streets, in part by _his_ efforts, and this feeling, this heady _pride_ in himself and his teammates and the municipal criminal justice system as a whole lets him forget all about corruption and everything but a job well done, and the good citizens of Central East served and protected.

Everyone at the station is congratulatory—The Chopper was a shitty deal for _everyone_ in the department; it’s good to have an actual _serial killer_ off their minds—the _Team_ is, for lack of a more encompassing word—elated.

“You were _amazing_ , Chief,” says Havoc, starry-eyed, while Ed _laughs_ ; a hand thrown around Havoc’s shoulders and just _free_. Roy has to remind himself that they’ve known one another for a long, long time—probably longer than Roy has known the both of them put together. The thought is… bizarre.

“Did you see _Hawkeye_ , though? She was so fucking pissed, oh my _god_.” Ed snickers— _snickers_ —and shakes his head. “That was ridiculous. I saw some _shit_ down in Xenotime, but it was nothing like that.”

It’s so late. Roy doesn’t even have to rouse his phone to tell—the windows are pitch black, have been for hours, and it may be winter but Roy knows what an all-nighter feels like. Fuery, giddy and joining in on Havoc and Ed’s giggling not five minutes ago, is asleep at his desk. Riza is dealing with legal issues. From his vantage point leaned against Havoc’s desk, Roy knows it’s less than ten minutes ‘til Havoc crashes and burns—Ed, on the other hand, Roy thinks might be _allergic_ to sleep. And the fact remains, that the mood here is warm, and open, and tinged with just enough exhaustion to add a hysteric undertone to the laughter, and the overheads are dimmed in favor of soft orange lamplight, throwing a soft glow onto Ed’s hair and skin and eyes and the curve of his forearm, framed by long sleeves hours ago pushed up past the elbows, and the lines of his neck are highlighted by laughter and the skin there is tinted honey and smooth and

“Mustang? Hey, _Mustang._ ”

Roy’s eyes flutter open and he’s pulled back from sleep with an agonized groan. “Mmwha?” he mumbles, eloquently. A hand is on his arm, warm but firm, and hovering next to him is Ed, eyes dancing.

“You tired?” Ed asks, clearly amused, and the only response he gets in return is an unimpressed harrumph as Roy sits up; tenderly massages his sore neck. At the sound, Ed snorts. “Right; ask a stupid question…” The hand on Roy’s arm moves away—Roy feels slightly bereft. “Havoc just left—he’s gonna drop Kain by his place on the way. You won’t need me to… do that for you?”

Roy shakes his head, finally starting to fully gain consciousness again. He lives just three blocks away—his car can stand one night in the lot.

At the answer, Ed shrugs. “’S cool.” He shifts back ono Roy’s desk—his legs don’t quite reach the ground, but Roy doesn’t quite feel awake enough to deal with the fallout of pointing _that_ out—and an odd sort of silence hangs between them as Roy gathers himsef—it’s almost… _comfortable._

He should take the files on The Chopper home for overview, they’ll certainly be in enough demand soon. And maybe the ones on former suspects, just to cover all his bases. As Roy sifts through files, Ed watches.

“Hey, um—Mustang?” Ed says after a minute, while Roy looks for the file on internal investigations—it’s not where he had it _last_. Roy hums the affirmative, not really looking over at Ed, but he registers the way he shifts—brings a leg up to his chest and wraps his arms around it. Ed’s boot is on Roy’s desk, but he decides for some reason not to complain. “I was just wondering if it’s always like… this.”

Ed makes a vague gesture with his hand, and looks at Roy, like he’s waiting for a response.

Roy raises an eyebrow.

The blond shrugs. “You know, all—glowy, and shit. Look, don’t even start, just—“ Ed’s shoulders hunch; he’s not looking at Roy anymore, or he would see that Roy is not even _close_ to mocking his word choice. “It’s just that—that I’ll be taking your job soon, and you’ll be—deputy chief. And I’m happy for you, Mustang; I know you really _want_ the job—and hell, I really want _this_ one, but. It’ll be different, you know? And I was wondering—“

Ed looks so distressed all of a sudden—he’s practically curled into a ball on top of Roy’s desk, tense and _sad_ , and Roy _hates_ this, hates seeing Ed so small and hurt-looking, so he reaches out to him. It’s just a hand, like Ed had used to wake Roy up, and Roy is so terrible with… _this_. But Ed is distressed, and he is a very physical person, and this method of comfort just seems… fitting. Under Roy’s touch, Ed’s shoulders relax minutely; he’s stopped talking and worrying and is just leaning back into Roy’s touch, shifting across his back and shoulders.

Some part of Roy, nearly stifled by sleep and Ed and the moment, knows that he will be regretting this tomorrow, that this kind of quiet intimacy is taking things into New territory and it would be so much easier and better for both of them if he just left now. But for the moment, Roy has no interest in easy, and no time for familiar, meaningless excuses.

So he stays.

Later, after minutes, or hours, and no inclination to differentiate between the two, the walk out of the station together, sleep-and-adrenaline-addled and oddly at peace with the world. Roy remembers feeling strangely _sick_ when Ed talks of calling a cab, going home for the night, and offers Ed the use of his apartment for the night.

He remembers pieces of the walk over—telling a _nonsensical_ joke and listening with pride to the way Ed cracked up, nearly tripping into a lamppost and threatening to have it arrested for assault of an officer, he and Ed hanging off one another and talking in hushed, breathy voices—and he remembers demanding Ed take the bed, because Roy remembers Ed mentioning chronic pain from the prosthetics and feels jolts of sympathetic pain shoot up his back, and that he would not take anything resembling ‘no’ for an answer.

The rest of the night (morning?) is… hazy.

But when Roy wakes up, at 3:07 PM the next day, his traitorous body aching in joints he hadn’t even remembered existed from sleeping on his less-than-ideal couch with his neck at such an awkward angle, Ed is gone.

The bed is made, there are no foreign clothes left scattered over his bedroom floor, nothing in the kitchen has been touched, and Roy, as he observes all these things, realizes how _colossally_ he fucked things up for himself last night, as every memory starts cramming itself into his head and plays behind his eyes on a loop.

And, promptly, panics.

-

Maes rings twice before picking up, and Roy vaguely feels like he is about to vomit. Into his sink. On some dirty dishes.

When he finally picks up, Maes sounds far too cheery. “Heya, Roy! Congratulations on last night!”

Oh god.

What has he _heard_?

“I did _not_ have sex with him, Maes.”

On the other line, Hughes is perfectly silent for at least one minute… then, slowly, says “I feel like we are talking about two _very_ different things.”

-

Roy groans piteously. “He came over last night, Maes—he slept in my _bed_. And we didn’t _do_ anything but I think I _wanted_ to— _Maes_ —“

“Roy!” Maes is clearly slightly amused by his dilemma, the _bastard_. “Hey, listen, if this is an overdue bi crisis—“

“ _I thought about it_ , Maes!”

“I’m acutely aware, Roy. Listen, you brought home a _huge_ case last night, and I’m sure you must have… overindulged, but I’m _also_ sure the whole thing was consensual—wait he wasn’t… married, or something, was he? Are you hurt?”

“ _No_.” Roy growls, a hand thrown over his eyes. Afternoon light streams through the thin curtains and into the room, and it makes this—too real. Unavoidable.

“Was it _Armstrong_?”

“Maes I swear to God I will—“

“I have a _child_ , Roy, mind your language.”

“It was _Ed_.”

And there it is again, that stunned silence.

“You slept with _Ed_?”

“No!” Roy’s answer is too quick, too heated for his own liking, and he doesn’t even want to _consider_ it. Because last night he _had_ considered it—he had been riding high from getting that son of a bitch in prison and watched Ed laugh so… content and at peace, and an _ache_ had settled in his chest—he’d watched that, all of that, from Ed’s grin to the curve of his back, leaning against Roy’s desk in soft, warm light, and he had wanted Ed’s voice around his name, sharp and slightly accented and thick— _everything_. And now that ache is warped and terrifying, tugging at and tightening his chest so his breaths are shallow, and every muscle in Roy's body is _tensed_ , waiting for something. “But I wanted—I _want_.”

“Roy,” says Maes, and his voice is softer now, calming; comforting. “What do you want? Can you name it?”

Of _course_ he can’t—Roy nearly scoffs at the very idea. What he _wants_ is that smile, directed his way again, and small touches that mean nothing and everything at the same time, and honey-golden skin up against his, warm and _there_ and driving away this ugly tightening thing inside him for just a _moment_. But if he gives it a name, then he gives it power over him; he makes it _real_.

Maes is still talking—something about Elysia starting to read chapter books now, and she’s only just started second grade!, and Roy times his breathing to the flow of Maes’ words, consciously straightens his back and loosens his muscles.

“…But I’m _sure_ she’ll enjoy Nancy Drew when she’s older—she says she wants to be a detective now, just like her Daddy—I think it’d be a great way to start her off—“

“I want _him_ ,” says Roy, quietly, and just the tiniest bit hoarse. Maes stops rambling immediately, and over the phone Roy can hear him let out a small relieved sigh.

“Okay,’ says Maes. “That’s okay, Roy.”

He laughs, then—it’s not pretty, but it isn’t bitter either; it just feels real, rattling up through Roy’s vocal chords. “What the hell do I do _now_? He slept at my _house_ last night, Maes, I _offered_ —What if I’ve fucked it up already?”

Maes’ voice is very Paternal and Determined, and Roy does not fight a grimace. “You have _not_ fucked it up, Roy.”

Roy huffs his disdain at the tone.

Maes laughs, breathily. “Right, sorry. It’s still true, though, Roy. If Ed were so easily put off, he would have headed back to Xenotime his first day.”

Ah yes, their disastrous first encounter—which Maes _himself_ had orchestrated. “This is all your fault,” Roy says to him, darkly; with feeling.

“Thank you,” says Maes, equally as serious.

Roy huffs again, but a small traitorous smile has wormed its way onto his face anyway. “Goodbye, Maes.”

“Drink water! Take some headache medicine!”

“Good _bye_ Maes.” Roy says, and hangs up, thinking _and thank you._

-

Roy will freely admit that he _rehearses_.

He comes into work the next morning with every conceivable layer on and a nervous pit of acid that Hughes tells him is _hope_ brewing in his stomach, and even ignores the way Havoc laughs.

In his mind, eventualities play out ( _why mustang I would be delighted to have you just to show how into this I truly am I will kiss you right where havoc and his thirsty ass may see_ ) and he sits at his desk, getting nothing done, waiting on the edge of his seat.

And waiting.

And—waiting.

Around noon, Roy is more than a little worried.

By the time he’s heading home for the night, he is numb—honestly, he was expecting this, in every dark corner and empty space in his mind he was waiting for the other shoe to drop, and this didn’t come as a surprise, because Ed obviously sensed the depth of his feelings last night—how could he _not_?—and he was too kind to tell Roy no to his face so he was avoiding him and this is _fine_.

It is fine.

Roy will be fine.

-

For four days, Roy is fine.

Honestly, he is impressed with himself—he has shown up at work, eaten at least two meals a day, Maes has not had to pick him up black-out drunk from a sleazy bar downtown—

Best not to think about Maes.

Maes looks sad, now—sad and just confused—and Roy doesn’t like it when Maes looks sad, but what can he do, when this was his fault in the first place?

-

“Roy,” says Riza, after handing him a handing him a press release form for review, and the tone is familiar. She’s worried about him. The thought has always weighed heavily on him; Roy tries not to suffocate under it. “Are you sure you should be working, now?”

Roy doesn’t question how or what she knows. He’s certain Maes has told her by now.

“I am,” he says, quiet but firm.

Her expression says that she understands, even if she doesn’t want to.

“Take care of yourself, Roy.”

“You too, Commissioner,” he says, and stands to leave.

-

It is 9:56 on Saturday night (day five) when Roy gets a call.

He almost ignores it.

The number is not an East area code, not a number he knows, and Roy had in all honesty been considering the sleazy bars and black-out drunkenness, but—for some, _some_ reason—he answers, and at once, Roy is completely confused.

“Hello?” he says, very politely. He forgets to introduce himself, because phones have caller ID now and his is not seven.

“Yes, hello, um…” says the person on the other line, and Roy’s heart _almost_ stops, because it _almost_ sounds like the voice he’s been fucking daydreaming about for every one of the last five days—but there is something about the hesitance and the timbre that tells him that it is unequivocally Not, so it doesn’t. “Are you Mustang?”

Roy is fairly certain this is a real person—no pre-recorded _tin can_ could sound remotely like Him—and the only thing he has against them is that they sound too similar to the man Roy has been _wanting_ to hear, so he says “This is he,” and hopes he’s not being sold something.

“Oh good,” says the other line, working the words around a monumental sigh. “I’m sorry to bother you, but you’re written down in Brother’s phone as ‘the BASTARD’ which is… pretty much a term of endearment for him, so I assumed you were the Mustang he’s been wallowing over.”

“…Excuse me?” says Roy. He doesn’t dare be hopeful—he doesn’t _dare_ , not after these five days—but oh god does it sound like—

“Oh, I’m sorry, I haven’t introduced myself. My name’s Alphonse Elric—I’m Ed’s brother.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Roy’s autopilot responds, because Roy himself is currently too busy trying not to collapse after just hearing Ed’s name again.

“I’d say likewise, but my brother is making himself miserable because of you right now, so I’m afraid I’m having to reserve my judgement.” Alphonse sounds like he is trying to pass a very real threat off as a joke, and he manages it flawlessly. Roy is sure that if he weren’t so elated and stupid with it, he’d be very threatened.

“He’s—he talk—he mentions me?” Roy manages to say, and is disappointed, yet unsurprised with the effort.

Over the phone, Alphonse’ breathy laugh sounds so much like Edward's that Roy wants to record it for purposes purely scientific in nature.

“Mr. Mustang I would appreciate it if you would come and collect my brother before Winry forfeits her foreign exchange program and does it herself.”

Ed has mentioned Winry before—also mentioned Al, with whom Roy assumes he is speaking.

Roy knows how he feels about dreams, knows their fleeting and heartbreaking nature—and yet he is embracing this one so openly, so _hopefully_ — “Where may I find him?”

-

Ed Elric’s apartment is a small, unassuming thing, and Roy cannot bring himself to be surprised.

The building itself, as Roy looks up at it from the inadequately-spaced parking lot, is in fact, is a beacon to mediocrity and ‘meh’ in housing everywhere—though to be fair it is not 10:00 at night and as such his vision is limited. The area is acceptable at least—though in the back of Roy’s mind he worries, because as holidays approach burglaries and drive-by’s spike in subdivisions like this one.

Roy notices all of this because he spends six whole minutes after he’s arrived just staring at the building—like he can locate Ed’s apartment by concentrated willpower.

He can’t.

Luckily, he has a piece of scrap paper clutched in his hand with all the information he’ll need. Thank god Alphonse had trusted him—theoretically intimidating threats aside.

It takes him another four minutes to convince himself to actually _do_ this.

When he finds himself in front of Ed’s door, Roy has to remind himself exactly how to breathe.

He steels himself—

knocks.

“I’ll get it!” someone inside calls—Roy recognizes it as Alphonse.

There is a scuffle inside, and something creaks low and long—probably the floorboards—and from further into the apartment comes a “Who the _fuck—_?” that drives the wind out of Roy’s chest like a solid punch.

“I’ll _get_ it, Brother!” repeats Alphonse, sounding exasperated, and opens the door.

It should not be as funny to Roy as it is that Ed’s beloved little brother is taller than him by at least four inches. Hell, standing in the doorway in a tasteful sweater-and-jean combination that starts him wondering if they _really_ share genetics, he just might be taller than _Roy_.

Really, there isn’t _any_ question that they’re related. Everything about their coloring is just slightly off—Alphonse’ skin is a shade paler than Ed’s, but his hair is closer to carmalized sugar than sheaves of wheat—but the eyes always seem to be the same.

Currently, Alphonse’ eyes are appraising, possibly the tiniest bit relieved, and it takes all Roy has in him to not look down at whatever rumpled thing he’s wearing.

“Hello Mr. Mustang,” he says, smiling. “Thank you for coming—I know it’s late.”

Roy doesn’t have time to respond, offer his hand, thank Alphonse for calling, because around the corner comes Edward, rubbing an eye and saying “Who’re you talkin’ to, Al?”

Their eyes meet—blocked by Alphonse and the doorframe that Roy is forcing himself not to duck behind just to escape all of this—and all Roy really wants is to fall into those eyes; so expressive and vivid and open.

The expression they are currently conveying is _blatant shock._

Alphonse steps away from the doorway, leaving Roy there alone and in Ed’s full view, and says “Surprise?”

“Al, you fuckin’ _traitor_ ,” Ed hisses, voice as full of venom as Roy expects it can be directed at Alphonse.

“I told you to stop moping or I would do something,” says Alphonse, not missing a beat. “This is me doing something. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll be in my room, calling Winry and pretending I don’t exist.”

And then they’re alone.

Seeing him again is sending a heady mix of emotions through Roy’s mind and down his throat, settling in his chest and just swimming there, anxious. Ed is dwarfed by a university sweatshirt and sweatpants; his hair is down and tangled—Roy wants to run his hands through it, gently ease the knots out, even though it shines gently with the grease of a few days without washing—and he suddenly feels incredibly overdressed in his work clothes and winter gear.

Neither of them are saying anything. The only sound is the sound of a heater in the other room, buzzing inconsistently and sputtering like it’s on its dying breaths.

“Ed—“ Roy starts to say, not quite sure how he’ll end it but if he doesn’t say _something_ he’ll spontaneously combust.

“Did Al call you?” Ed interrupts him. He’s shifting closer to the doorway, tensed and wary, and Roy realizes that he might just be as terrified of this as he is.

“He did,” Roy answers, honestly. “Ed—can I come in?”

Ed shakes his head. “Why?”

“Ed, can I come in?”

“Mustang—“ Ed’s voice breaks, and Roy takes a step forward—can’t _help_ it. He’s drawn to him. A hand reaches out to Ed, placatingly, the gap between them growing ever shorter, and surprisingly, Roy is still scared out of his goddamn mind. Adrenaline courses through his every vein and artery, his heart has given up its correct placement to take up residence in his throat, and normally, out of sheer self-preservation, Roy would be pulling back now—making excuses, playing it off and smoothing things over to panic about it later in the safety of his apartment.

But he isn’t. And he won’t. Roy has had enough of running away, of placating, _words_ —

Slowly, giving Ed every chance to pull away, to tell him no, Roy’s hand, shaking and tense, reaches out and brushes feather-soft against Ed’s cheek.

As if he’s flipped a switch, Ed’s eyes fly shut, he breathes in a quick, small gasp.

Roy wants this, all of this, so much that he feels like he’s being burned with it from the inside out.

“Ed,” he says, the words barely audible even to him, but he needs, he _needs_ to hear— “do you want..?”

“You’re wearing the fucking mittens,” says Ed, around a bubbling laugh that just keeps growing. “The _mittens_.”

“I will have you know that they are _heat-efficient_ ,” says Roy, and the smile is warm and lazy, and he doesn’t know if he’s ever felt so unbearably _content_ in his life.

“Shut the fuck up and kiss me, Mustang,” laughs Ed. And Roy—

obliges.

**Author's Note:**

> silly title ripped from shiver shiver by walk the moon, i am very sorry...
> 
> thank you for reading!!! sorry if it was incoherent at all, this was mostly written when i was fever-y this week whoops
> 
> comments/kudos/good vibes are my bread and butter <33


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